Michael Kiwanuka

Michael Kiwanuka, 29, is a soul singer-songwriter, soon to release the follow-up to his critically acclaimed 2012 debut album, Home Again. He is wearing a vintage Wrangler denim jacket.

I’ve always been a fan of denim; it’s my staple. I had never been to America until I toured there in 2012, and in between gigs I’d look for clothes in vintage stores. As soon as I saw this Wrangler jacket in Atlanta, Georgia, I loved the corduroy collar; I’d not seen a denim jacket like it before. It was only about $25; it would be double that in London.

I wore it soon after, to perform I’m Getting Ready on the Late Show With David Letterman. I was really nervous; it was my first TV appearance, and I loved that show when I was growing up. John Mayer wrote a post on his blog about that performance, and how he’d bought my album, and loads of people started listening to my music. From then on it became my lucky jacket.

I’ve got backstage passes in the lining, from the last Latitude and Glastonbury, and a few European festivals. I’ll be adding to them this summer.

‘I just love the whole 1970s look.’ Photograph: Julian Anderson for the Guardian

I just love the whole 1970s look: neat afro, Wrangler jacket, polo neck and round sunglasses. It’s that west-coast-soul kind of vibe you get looking at early Prince photos. I remember going to a pub in Dalston, east London, thinking I was the only one with a corduroy collar, and everyone had them. People used to notice it, and it felt rare; now it’s like, “You’ve got one of those.”

I do like finding a bargain, but I’m known to splash out every now and again. Jackets are my thing: there’s about seven I wear a lot, including a brown Lee corduroy one, an American college baseball jacket, and a Rick Owens leather jacket. The irony is that I can never wear them on stage because I get hot and sweat a lot. I never go shopping at home in London, only on tour, so when I tour again in October, I’ll probably end up buying bits and bobs in all the cities we go to: some clothing, and also nice records. And then I feel like I’m on the road.

Tom Odell: ‘I just feel more comfortable if I put the same shoes on every morning.’ Photograph: Julian Anderson for the Guardian

Tom Odell

Tom Odell, 25, is a singer-songwriter, who was awarded an Ivor Novello in 2014. He’s wearing Balmoral boots by George Cleverley.

I’ve never been that into fashion, but I really like shoes. I’ll buy a pair of classic English boots every year and wear them out; then I’ll take them down to the cobblers, which is like giving them an MOT. I keep every pair, because each one reminds me of a different time. For example, 2013 was a brown chelsea boot by RM Williams that I got in Sydney; the year before was a Grenson. A cobbler once told me that you should do a day on and a day off to give your shoes a rest – they need to have some “me” time. So what I do is not great for the shoe, but I just feel more comfortable if I put the same shoes on every morning.

I don’t like to think about what to wear: I like to have three options, and I’ll do that for six months until a button falls off, and then move on. To some degree, it’s like having a uniform. I’ve got only four shirts and three jackets, which are all vintage. I don’t like spending loads of money on clothes; it feels like a waste to me. I couldn’t imagine spending £1,000 on a jacket.

Last summer Elton John basically said to me, “You look like a fucking student; you’ve got to go out and buy some nice clothes for the stage, because it’s a show.” He offered to take me out shopping; I said I’d only go with him if I could drive my tiny 1990s Mini, which I thought would be hilarious. We haven’t got round to it yet, but I took what he said on board a little bit. I wear half a suit now, although I do wear the same thing every night – trousers by Assembly and a shirt by Oliver Spencer.

The other day I did a massive cull and took two bin bags of clothes to my local charity shop. A few days later I went into my local coffee shop and the guy in there – who’s a mate of mine – was wearing one of my T-shirts. I mean, what are the chances? I thought, “Why did I give that away? It’s a really nice T-shirt.”

Tom Odell’s second album, Wrong Crowd, is out now on Columbia Records.

Daniel Mays

Daniel Mays, 38, is a stage and screen actor. He made his name in the Mike Leigh films All Or Nothing (2002) and Vera Drake (2004), and most recently starred in BBC2’s Line Of Duty. He is wearing a green pinstriped suit he tailored himself for his role in Vera Drake.

My character in Vera Drake, Sid, was outgoing and debonair and worked at a tailor’s, so he was very particular about the suits he wore. I was spending two days a week at a tailor’s in London Bridge for my research when our costume designer, Jacqueline Durran, suggested I make Sid a 1940s suit myself. I chose a green woollen cloth and a blue pinstripe thread, cut the cloth and mocked it up before it was sent away to be constructed. It’s very important to own your character, but to build my costume from scratch was unlike anything I had experienced before. Seeing it in the film gave me an incredible feeling.

There’s a wonderfully funny scene where Sid is measuring up a customer (played by Chris O’Dowd) for a suit, which I recall was very difficult to shoot. It was such a wordy scene, but at the same time I had to show perfect tailoring. It was a bit like patting your head and rubbing your stomach.

The suit helped my character look more believable, and now it’s in my wardrobe at home. I have worn it since, even though the trousers are so high-waisted they give Simon Cowell a run for his money. As time has progressed since the 1940s and 1950s, men’s trousers have got lower and lower; nowadays you can see guys’ boxer shorts hanging out of their jeans.

I wore the suit for my audition for Joe Wright’s Atonement, so it feels lucky. If there is ever a hint or suggestion that clothing might benefit your chances of getting a job, then I think any actor should try to do that, within reason… If you’re auditioning for a clown, you don’t want to turn up in full clown makeup and shoes. But if it helps make the decision of a panel of people who want to solve a problem and cast a role, that can only be a good thing.

Actors can hide behind the clothes they wear. It’s easier to play characters than actually be yourself in a room, sometimes.

I’m low-key when it comes to fashion. I buy in bulk every three months and then I wear that stuff to death, forgetting what I’ve already got in my wardrobe. When you go to film premieres, there is pressure to look smart, and you have to have a strong sense of your style. The trouble is you wear one thing and get photographed in it, so you have to be seen to try to wear different stuff. That pressure is not always associated with men; but it’s quite a big thing to take on.

Sometimes I’ll go to Haddon PR in Camden, north London, who champion stylish, urban labels like Native Youth – Tom Hardy and Riz Ahmed have both gone there in the past. But without a doubt it’s the Vera Drake suit I have the biggest emotional connection to. The film’s critical success opened the door and people started to take notice. It was the catalyst, really, for things to come.

Irvine Welsh

Irvine Welsh, 58, is a Scottish novelist whose cult novel Trainspotting was made into a film in 1996. He lives in Chicago with his wife. He’s wearing his favourite Hugo Boss hoodie.

My hoodie is a beautiful, cosy garment. It’s perfect for spring; it’s transitional. I wear it to my bored-housewife spinning class in the neighbourhood where I live. One of the women once came up and stroked me. She said [adopting a midwestern American accent]: “My, my, my, it’s just like a warm bear.” So I call it my warm bear jacket. I wasn’t expecting to be stroked by a strange woman at that time of the morning; I felt like I was at an acid house rave in the 1990s.

My wife bought it for me five years ago. When we first got together, my pals would say, “You’re dressing so much better now”, because she was picking out the clothes.

I always buy things that are far too young for me; age-appropriate clothes are just horrible. I feel great in young persons’ clothes, but I look ridiculous. I think, “My God, you’re 58; you can’t dress like you’re 31.”

I never go out and party nowadays, but I do have a mentality that the clothes you wear should mean you’re ready to be dragged into a nightclub.

I don’t feel comfortable in nice clothes; I feel like I’m going to court or something. I’d rather dress like someone who is breaking into somebody’s house than someone who’s in court because they’ve broken into somebody’s house.

I don’t know if I’m a closet goth, but I wear black because it’s practical. You have to be, in Chicago, because of the weather. When I go to my place in Miami, I’m in a white linen suit and panama hat – a Humphrey Bogart kind of look. You get away with it there. It’s weird. In some ways I’m such an exhibitionist, but I don’t like standing out on the basis of my clothes. I like attention, but I like to earn that attention through personality and conversation.

I was in Rome with my publisher about 17 years ago, when I was invited into the Armani store. They wanted to put me in a suit and shoes and I picked the most expensive cut, which back then would have cost about £3,000. But they said it was on them. A few days later Versace invited me, and as I walked in, I fell in love with a beautiful long cashmere coat. They fitted it for me and everything, and I thought, “Fucking brilliant,” until they were like, “And how will sir be paying?” You could have knocked me down with a feather. It was about £5,000 – the most expensive item I’ve ever bought – but I don’t regret it at all. It was like a drug rush when I put the coat on. I felt on top of the world.

Adrien Sauvage

Adrien Sauvage, 33, founded his menswear label A. Sauvage in 2010. He is wearing a leather jacket he reworked for his 2013 collection.

I found this biker jacket in Camden, north London, in one of those places where you just take out £20 from your pocket and hand it over. When I started my clothing line everyone knew me for tailoring, but I didn’t want to be the suit guy, so I reworked this jacket to look brand new. I wear it everywhere, from work events to Coachella; I feel sexy in it. It reminds me of who I am and where I am. I know I’m never going to throw it away. If my house were on fire I would grab this jacket. And my two babies, of course. I could wrap them up in it.

Clothes are like a mixtape: you always update them. If there’s anything in my wardrobe that I wouldn’t want to wear in the next 60 days, I’ll put it in the bin.

My typical style is a black T-shirt [own design] and leather jeans (by Rick Owens), but I do take risks. All the fashion faux pas I’ve made in the past are coming back into fashion right now. I used to have a yellow raincoat in the 1990s, and now I’m like, “Wow, I could have actually worn that again.”

I’ll wear pyjama suits around the house with Nike sliders; I can still go down the shop and look pretty dope. I buy a lot of animal-print shirts from anywhere that does long enough sleeves. Being 6ft 5in, it’s handy that I can make my own clothes, but Saint Laurent do a good leopard print, or I buy vintage shirts for women, although it’s annoying buttoning them up the other way round.

You have to be a bit aspirational if you’re selling a certain kind of product. As a designer, you never want to be the subject – you like to let your work speak for itself – but it’s also a bit like if your personal trainer was fat. My wife knows me better than I know myself: if she ever says, “You’re wearing that, then?” I’ll never wear it again.

Jon Snow

Jon Snow, 68, is a newsreader and the longest-running presenter of Channel 4 News, which he has hosted since 1989. He is wearing a Versace greatcoat.

I found this greatcoat in a high-end junk shop about 25 years ago. Apparently, it belonged to an Arab gentleman who paid £3,000 for it, and had only ever worn it once. I had a good haggle and eventually got it down to £150.

It’s a completely inappropriate piece of outerwear that in no way fits into any other aspect of my wardrobe. It’s so big you could fit three of me in it; you wouldn’t know who was inside. It makes it out on location – for example, when I have to stand in Westminster in the cold – a dozen times a year, but I’d never wear it on any other occasion.

Why do I feel so attached to it? Because it’s a secure link to one’s mild insanity. On the inside, there’s an amazing gold splash of Versace filth, I suppose you could call it. It’s a flasher’s paradise. Recently, I was given a wardrobe at work because they realised we need to keep things in places, hung up; so the coat now lives in the wardrobe there. My wife is pleased; it’s allowed for about five suits to be hung where it once was.

I’m a tie fetishist: I’ve got in excess of 100 ties, and I keep the numbers down by giving them away to charity after a certain amount of time. My socks must reflect an element of colour in my tie. It’s a mood thing: if I meet a man with grey socks, I know their character is in trouble.

I couldn’t call myself a fashionista. Buying clothes isn’t a huge pastime, but I do go to Italy about twice a year and make sure I go to a shop or two. I buy leather shoes from Fratelli Rossetti and drainpipe trousers from Banana Republic – being an American firm, they understand someone who is over 6ft. I almost never wear a suit at home or out of work, if I can avoid it; I’m a sweater and cords man. For me, an attachment to clothes has a lot to do with nostalgia and vanity. We occasionally think we look good in certain things, but it’s not very often that we actually do. So when you do find something you love wearing, you hang on to it. In fact, you can never let it go.

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